


Keep a Secret, Throw Away the Key {Hiatus}

by theorchardofbones



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Alternate Universe - Steampunk, Aristocrat!Ignis, Courtesan!Prompto, M/M, Sky Pirates, seriously guys there's gonna be sky pirates I'm stoked, thief!noctis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-05
Updated: 2018-01-22
Packaged: 2019-02-28 18:18:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13277181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theorchardofbones/pseuds/theorchardofbones
Summary: When Prompto, a courtesan at the highly-acclaimed Altissian bordello the Sylleblossom, learns from Noctis that a wealthy mark is due to attend with something very precious in his possession, he's reluctant to indulge his former partner-in-crime's whims.Upon meeting Ignis, however, all bets are off — but it seems Prompto's in for more than he bargained for when he makes it his mission to woo the Tenebraean viscount and snatch the item from him.Noct — and his shadowy buyer — isn't the only one interested in the item in Ignis's possession, and it seems a few have a stake in claiming it for themselves, at all cost.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've been dabbling in a lot of ships lately, but I've yet to give Promnis a shot. With another fic soon to be cleared from my roster, I found the perfect AU to indulge these two...
> 
> The title is borrowed from lyrics to the Kylie Minogue song 'Confide in Me'.

Silk whispers across pale skin dappled with freckles: a toned stomach, a slender thigh. Fingers tug at the silk, greedy and needy, and for a minute Prompto Argentum  _ almost _ gives in. Part of the job description is pretending to like his clients — acting as though he’s never known pleasure before their touch — but with some of the regulars he doesn’t even have to put on an act.

He slaps gently at the wandering hand, and when the strike prompts a little gasp of pain he picks up that hand and soothes it with a kiss.

‘Time’s up, love,’ he says, stretching across the bedside table and tapping the top of the hourglass there, the last grains of sand having already drained away.

She’s an elegant woman — grey hair still curling gracefully around a face with a pretty mouth and kind eyes. She pays well, and she just happens to be a member of the council of Accordo.

‘So turn it over,’ she says, reaching for the hourglass. ‘No one has to know.’

He leans down and gives her a lingering kiss, and as his robe falls away from him she slips her arms around his middle.

‘One day I’ll come back here with all the riches in the world,’ she says, ‘and I’ll claim you for myself.’

It’s a nice thought — one that he’s often heard. It used to flatter him to no end to think that maybe one day he’d find someone with the wealth to steal him away from this place, to give him a  _ real _ life. He grew out of those delusions pretty quickly.

‘Don’t make threats you don’t intend to keep,’ he teases, chasing his words with another kiss.

Long after the councilwoman is gone — he knows her name, but to speak it aloud is forbidden outside sessions in the Sylleblossom — he bathes, taking his time. He’s still soaking in the steaming hot baths when Cindy wanders in, her blonde curls all matted and painted lips all smudged.

She trudges to the edge of the water and kicks off her boots, slipping out of her robe before climbing into the water and sinking in neck-deep.

‘Rough evening?’ Prompto asks, scooching over to help her tease the tangles out of her hair.

‘Don’t even start,’ she counters, giving him a warning look. ‘I had an hour with the Mister and Missus, then a double with Moneybags. I’m gonna sleep like a rock tonight.’

Another of the courtesans might be envious to hear that she booked three slots in a row — that she’s so in-demand, even in the quiet periods. They’ve always been the top two at the Sylleblossom, however, and when a client isn’t looking for one of them, they’re usually looking for the other — or both.

‘Are you booked up tomorrow?’ he asks, working his finger carefully through a snarled ringlet.

She shrugs her delicate shoulders, covered in freckles much like his own.

‘The madam says there’s somebody new comin’ in,’ she says, ‘on account of the Chocobo National comin’ to town. An aristocrat or what have you. Needs all her best worker bees bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, an’ I’m  _ assumin’ _ that means you, too.’

Prompto’s skin prickles, the way it always does at the thought of meeting a new client. There’s so much possibility, so much potential, in that first meeting — and always, in spite of the voice of pragmatism in the back of his head, the question of whether this might finally be the one to take him away.

‘Guess it’ll be a quiet one tonight, then,’ he murmurs.

He helps Cindy untangle the worst of her hair, then kisses her on the cheek and goes. Once he’s dried off and dressed, donning nondescript attire with the hood of his cloak pulled low to hide his face, he uses the key around his neck to open the door out of the basement and slips out into the darkness.

Altissia is beautiful by night — the twinkling of the lamps, the glinting of moonlight on the waterways. Better still, he can wander the streets in total anonymity, visiting his favourite haunts at his discretion.

If he had any notions of stealing away into the night, gathering up his savings and fleeing for greener pastures, the madam ensures he’ll never see them through. He knows that he’s not alone as he paces down deserted streets; knows that if he took a wrong turn and wound up somewhere he wasn’t supposed to be, he’d likely see the face of his stalwart guard, as much for his own protection as the prevention of stolen property.

That’s all he is, and for all the glamour and mystique of the Sylleblossom, the madam likes to remind him and the others of that fact on a regular basis. The last time somebody was disobedient, she shaved the offender’s head, just to show that she could.

He shivers and pulls his cloak tighter around himself against the chill night air. At least where he’s going, there’ll be noise and bustle enough to allow him to speak candidly without fear of being overhead.

The Tonberry Knife is a grubbier establishment than one might expect to find one of the Sylleblossom’s finest, but it suits his purposes just fine — and it’s been something of a tradition to meet here, since his days before the Sylleblossom.

As he walks through the door, he spies the table in the corner where a drunkard put a knife to his throat and accused him of cheating at cards; at the bar is the spot where he once pinched the coin purse of a merchant on a whim, and wound up with enough crowns to keep himself fed for a month.

He flops down at his usual spot at the bar, keeping his hood up as he always does, and flags down the girl. She knows him well enough — even with the cloak to obscure his memorable face — to set a pint of the fragrant Altissian Pale Ale down in front of him.

‘Your shadow’s getting better,’ a voice says at his ear, ‘but he’s still terrible.’

Prompto snorts over his beer. He knows, without looking, that his protector sits alone at a table trying to blend in.

‘As long as he leaves me to my ale,’ Prompto says, ‘I don’t care what he does.’

Noctis is just as he remembers, but he only seems to get more handsome as he fills out with age. Already there’s the first scattering of a beard across his lower face, the same inky shade as his hair.

‘The National’s next week,’ Noct says softly. ‘Lots of new blood in town.’

Prompto sighs. He’s been out of Noct’s world for three years now, ever since he cut the purse of the wrong woman. Yet still his friend is always on the game when they’re together, telling him of likely marks before they wander through the doors of the Sylleblossom.

Some things never change.

‘Let me guess,’ Prompto says wearily, pausing to slake his thirst before turning to face his friend. ‘You want me to welcome all the gullible, filthy-rich idiots in with open arms and rob them blind, and give you a cut for the privilege of the information.’

Noct’s grey-blue eyes flash with feigned indignation. He holds a hand dramatically over his heart, his mouth an O of surprise.

‘Me?’ he protests. ‘Never.’

The girl hasn’t set Noct’s mug of ale down in front of him long before he turns to Prompto, leaning in close enough that to onlookers, it might look like a lover’s kiss.

‘There’s one mark in particular that you might be interested in,’ Noctis says, his voice just barely loud enough to be heard over the din. ‘A viscount, from Tenebrae. Rumour has it, he's dropping by tomorrow to choose his entertainment ahead of time. He has a thing for the young, pretty ones — sounds like you're his type.’

That seems to match up with what Cindy told him at the baths, at least. His curiosity is piqued.

‘And what makes him so special?’ Prompto says over the brim of his glass. ‘It better be worth my while.’

Noct casts a glance around, like he’s checking for eavesdroppers. When he seems satisfied, he leans in close once more.

‘He’s in possession of a particularly valuable item,’ Noctis says. ‘Something he keeps on his person at all times. What that something  _ is, _ I don’t know, but it’s worth enough that there’s already a buyer lined up.’

Prompto narrows his eyes. If there’s already a buyer, then it means deals have already been made; if there are deals are already made, then he doesn’t get much of a say in his cut.

‘I don’t know,’ he says. ‘Sounds like the payoff isn’t worth the risk.’

When Noct turns to him there’s a fire in his eyes. Prompto recognises it, and knows it well: greed. That same greed had been what netted Prompto his contract with the Sylleblossom — which, at the time, had seemed preferable to forfeiting his hand, as is the lawful punishment for the careless thief.

Noct grips his wrist, hard enough that it hurts, and Prompto has the distinct impression that his friend isn’t going to take no for an answer.

‘Please, Prompto,’ he says, in a desperate whisper. ‘You have to make him choose you, and you  _ have to _ steal it. It could be our ticket out of here.’

Noct always knows which buttons to push; the promise — no, the  _ dream _ — of getting away from Altissia, of making a new life with a new name, has sustained him all these years.

Six help him, Prompto is actually starting to consider it.

‘No promises,’ he says. ‘And I have to actually get  _ picked _ by him, first of all.’

Noct lets go of his wrist and settles back onto his stool, taking a deep drink of his ale. He’s smirking when he looks at Prompto again.

‘If I know you as well as I think I do,’ Noctis says, ‘You won’t give him a choice.’

* * *

There’s static in the air at the Sylleblossom. Everybody knows little enough of the new client coming to visit today, but that he’s nobility and that he has very discerning tastes has been enough of a source for gossip among the courtesans.

He can tell Cindy’s a little nervous — she shares his dream of saving enough to get away someday, but her debt to the madam is of an entirely different kind than his own. He can’t help but think how easy it would be to let her have this one, and watch Noct’s mark slip through his fingers.

They’re all dressed up in the Sylleblossom’s most luxuriant finery, of course, and only the cream of the crop are on show. Prompto feels his skin prickling into gooseflesh as he stands and waits in a line with the others, dressed in little more than a robe of silk brocade, tied loose to leave his decolletage exposed.

He shifts his weight uncomfortably onto one hip, and feels the madam’s eyes burning into his neck.

It’s not unexpected for clients, new and old, to be late — but they’ve been standing at attention for thirty minutes already. None of them dares ask where this mystery client may be, of course, or when he might deign to grace them with his presence. The madam’s temper is notoriously short even on the best of the days, and it’s plain to see that her impatience is getting to her.

On a lower floor, a door slams, and Prompto feels his heart leap in his chest. After a while, a set of thunderous footsteps can be heard in the servants’ corridors running along the rear of the bordello, and a door bursts open behind them.

‘He’s here,’ a girl’s voice gasps at the doorway, breathless from the sprint up several flights of stairs. ‘It’s him!’

Prompto straightens his back and tosses his head, letting his long, golden curls fall artfully about his face. Beside him, Cindy’s hair is styled much the same, while her own brocade gown falls open to expose decidedly more of her chest.

The madam shoos the girl out, and there’s just enough time for everybody to assemble themselves into order once more before the double doors ahead of them swing open and two men in military dress march in, each with a flintlock pistol at one hip and a sabre at the other.

The man himself is much younger than Prompto had expected — perhaps a couple of years at most. He has dark blonde hair swept back in a dashing fashion, and Prompto can’t help but wonder if his pristine silk white shirt and tan-coloured breeches have ever seen a speck of dirt. 

Prompto eyes the sabre hanging rakishly from his hip; there’s a blindingly blue gem set into the top of it. Like everything else about the viscount, it seems to be entirely for show.

‘My lord,’ the madam says, dipping in an extravagant curtsy. ‘I trust that your travels were pleasant.’

He takes her hand when she offers it; kisses it with such ardent foppery that Prompto feels as though he might just throw up in his mouth.

‘Any ills I may have suffered,’ the viscount says, ‘are the better for having seen your lovely face.’

Beside Prompto, Cindy barely suppresses a snort. There might have been a time when the madam was considered beautiful, but her dark hair is shot with grey now, scraped tightly off her forehead, and her lips are so thin that it’s difficult to tell a scowl from a smile, as rare as the latter is.

‘I have a selection for you to choose from at your leisure,’ the madam says. ‘Please — there is no rush. Time is something we have in abundance here at the Sylleblossom.’

The viscount casts a glance over the waiting courtesans, and for just a moment as his eyes meet Prompto’s, it feels as though an electrical current passes between them. Prompto feels his heart pick up in his chest, and a voice seems to scream  _ Choose me! _ from the darkest recesses of his mind.

The man takes his time, striding down the length of the room and back again, the flat of his blade rapping his thigh as he goes.

It’s on his second trip down the row that he stops in front of Prompto, pausing with the slightest smirk on his lips; for a long moment he just stands there with that damned infuriating expression on his face and Prompto has to fight to ask what’s so funny.

‘Silver is one of our very finest,’ the madam says, using the Sylleblossom’s nickname for him.

‘And this beauty?’ the viscount says, nodding his head toward Cindy.

‘Gold,’ the madam replies. ‘If you like, I can arrange for you to have them both. They work exceedingly well together, from what I’m told.’

Reflexively, Prompto holds his breath. The last thing he needs is for her to pull out the  _ twins _ gambit. If it weren’t so profitable, he’d flat-out refuse.

The viscount turns his eyes on Prompto, and that spark is there again. His glance isn’t the predatory stare of a man sizing up his next meal; it’s thoughtful and appraising, and Prompto can’t help but feel that to be chosen by him would be such a privilege, indeed.

He’s beautiful, really, up close. Not  _ handsome, _ in the traditional sense: pretty lips, pretty eyes, soft skin that begs to be touched.

_ Choose me. Please. _

The viscount blinks and turns away, striding across the room to the madam; he leans close and murmurs in her ear, and Prompto sees surprise flash momentarily across her face.

‘All week?’ he hears her says. ‘Certainly, my lord.’

It seems everyone in the room holds their breath at once as the viscount leaves with his escort; even after the doors have closed and the footsteps no longer echo down the hallway outside, Prompto’s afraid to move.

‘Well, Cindy,’ the madam says. ‘Looks like he’s taken quite a shine to you. Well done.’

While the others turn to congratulate Cindy with smiles that don’t quite meet their eyes, Prompto feels his heart drop.


	2. Chapter 2

Prompto blots his lips, turning them a delicate rose hue with each touch of his fingertips. He looks in the mirror and, once happy with the results, carefully closes the lid of the little tin of lip stain and sets it aside.

He thinks maybe he’s beautiful; the clients tell him as much often enough, but it’s another thing to believe it. The sun has brought out the constellation of freckles across his face, the rest of his skin still pale and milky-white — he’s delicate and pretty, not like so many of the other men in the Sylleblossom’s employ.

When he had first been dragged into the Sylleblossom, he had been a scrawny little thing, covered in so much oil and grime that the madam had quipped that she was scarcely sure if there had been a girl or a boy underneath all of it. Those first few weeks had been tough — no clients wanted to touch someone who was scarcely more than a child and still had the body of one.

Cindy had taken pity on him, though; she had shared her food, and shown him how to dab green beneath his eyes to hide the dark circles there, and how to hold himself so that the jut of his ribs hadn’t been quite so obvious.

He had filled out with time — had caught the eye of the right man, heavy-set and ruddy-faced, but with a heart as kind as his pockets were deep, and had never looked back.

He sighs and turns away from the mirror, rising to his feet. If he’s so damned  _ beautiful,  _ why didn’t the viscount pick  _ him? _

Enough is enough. Cindy might be having the time of her life with this man — getting whisked off to Lady’s Day at the Nationals, shown off on the arm of the viscount like some pretty little trophy in finery to rival those of the noblewomen — but Prompto has a job to do.

There are certain possessions he keeps squirrelled away, hidden from prying eyes: the few pieces of jewellery he owns of any worth; his meagre savings; toiletries that would surely go missing if the others were to find them.

There’s a false bottom in the lowest drawer of his dresser. He pulls the drawer out, stoops to reach underneath it, pokes his finger through the hole to push the false bottom up, and lifts it out. From the contents within, he finds a bottle of the lotion the councilwoman once gave him as a gift and opens the lid to sniff the liquid.

It smells like flowers and vanilla; like warm summer nights in a lover’s arms. Best of all, it’s infused with tiny flakes of gold that glint in the light, to make his skin glow as if he were something from a fairy tale.

Cindy will be back before long to ready herself for her night with the viscount. He’ll have to be ready then too.

* * *

‘You can keep the coin,’ Prompto pleads. ‘I don’t care about that.’

Cindy’s hands are on her hips, which is generally a good sign that she’s not backing down. Prompto isn’t, either.

‘Even if I said yes,’ Cindy says, ‘you  _ know _ what’d happen if the madam found out. That’d be  _ both _ our butts on the line.’

Prompto sighs and marches across her room to where the full-length mirror stands beside her bed and glances over his reflection, turning this way and that to let the lamplight catch the gold glittering across his skin.

‘Just give me ten minutes with him,’ he says. ‘If he turns me away, I’ll come get you. If not, I’ll… I’ll tell the madam he sent for me.’

When he turns, he’s wearing his best winning smile. It’s the one that he reserves for moments such as this, when he’s trying to sweet talk Cindy; other than Noct she’s his oldest friend, and although she sees through most of his attempts at coercion, sometimes even she can’t resist his charms.

‘C’mon, Cin,’ he says. ‘You can keep the coin  _ and _ I’ll give you half from my next session. I swear.’

She arches an eyebrow suspiciously. Maybe he’s selling it a little  _ too _ hard.

‘Half, huh?’ she echoes. ‘What’s so special about this one?’

Prompto feels his cheeks heat under her gaze. He knows he could tell her the truth, and even though she’d have mixed feelings about the ethics of it, he could trust her not to rat him out — but if she knew he wanted a private audience so badly with the viscount so that he could steal something from him, she’d never agree.

It’s a white lie, he tells himself. Not a  _ real _ one. Besides, once he gets the pay from the job, he’ll have more than enough to get both him and Cindy out of this life for good.

‘It hurt,’ he says, ‘when he passed me over. I… I feel like I’m losing my touch.’

That’s not exactly a lie — definitely closer to the truth than he cares to admit. So what if it’s not his entire motive?

Cindy purses her lips and tilts her head to the side. Her blonde curls jostle as she moves, setting her long jewelled earrings spinning. They’re new, he notices. A gift from the viscount.

‘So that’s all this is?’ she says. ‘You wanta prove you still got it?’

He shrugs. Looks guiltily down at his hands, where he twines them in front of him.

‘It’s dumb,’ he says. ‘I know it is. But all week, everybody else has been bagging clients left and right, and I don’t even get a second glance. Maybe if I can prove to myself that he could want me, too, it’ll give me my confidence back.’

Okay — so maybe he feels a little twinge of guilt as he glances up to see the sympathy in her eyes. He might be fudging the truth to protect her as much as himself, but he’s preying on her emotions; relying on how much she cares about him.

If there’s a hell, lorded over by Ifrit himself, he’s probably going to it. He’ll deal with it later.

‘Fine,’ she says, and he has to fight the urge to jump on the balls of his feet with glee. ‘But just tonight. If he asks for you again, you’re booked up. All right?’

He nods eagerly. After tonight, it won’t matter. With any luck, if he can get the item back to Noct quickly enough, he’ll be able to take Cindy out of her before sunrise.

‘Thanks, Cin,’ he says, flinging his arms around her shoulders. ‘I owe you.’

When he pulls away, there are tiny bits of gold dust on her clothes, glittering like stardust.

‘Yup,’ she says wryly. ‘You sure do.’

* * *

Anxiously, Prompto tugs on a curl of hair where it hangs by his ear. He keeps looking himself over in the mirror, adjusting little bits about his clothes, fretting over how his hair falls. He’s already changed his entire outfit twice; a third time would be overkill.

When he hears one of the girls scurry upstairs to let Cindy know that the viscount is here, he moves to stand by the door and waits, balling his hands at his sides and cursing himself when he finds them clammy with sweat.

She’ll attend the viscount first — offer him a massage, excuse herself under the pretext of finding oils to rub into his skin — and then she’ll come get Prompto to take over. After that, it’ll be up to him to work his magic.

He breathes in and out slowly, in spite of the urge to hold his breath in anticipation. Outside, he can hear Cindy’s soft tread moving down the hallway toward the stairs at the end; counts out the strides that it will take her to reach them, and the steps as she’ll descend them.

He knows he should do something to distract himself while he waits, but instead he paces the short length of his room and runs over his plan, imagining the conversation they’ll have once he’s in the viscount’s chambers.

When Cindy’s knock comes at the door later, he all but jumps at it — she’s there, her cheeks flushed pink and lips smudged, and in spite of himself Prompto can’t help but smirk. The viscount certainly has an appetite.

‘He’s ready,’ she says.

She has a tray in her hands, laden with jars and bottles of lotion and oil; before Prompto can take it from her grasp, she shakes her head and sets it down outside the door. 

‘Hol’ up,’ she says. ‘Your clothes are pulled all funny. Lemme fix ‘em.’

She’s meticulous as she straightens him out, working first on his outfit and then on his hair, making sure there isn’t a single strand out of place. Once she’s done, she ventures past him to grab his lip tint from the dressing table and uses it to blot some more colour onto his lips.

‘There,’ she says, almost proudly. ‘Knock ‘im dead.’

He flashes her a shy smile; he doesn’t dally long, however, before heading out into the hallway and stooping to pick up the tray.

The clothes he picked out are some of the finest he owns: a pale gold gossamer shirt that leaves him exposed from collar to breastbone, the delicate fabric leaving little to the imagination wherever it  _ does _ cover; harem trousers in purple silk that rustle like the swaying of leaves as he walks; a pair of golden sandals set with gemstones. He’s always so afraid of having any of it ruined that he saves such finery for clients who won’t be liable to tear it from him — who, it seems, are few and far between.

He’s trembling as he makes his way down the floors of the bordello. If he runs into the madam, she’ll probably try to foist him onto some client to make sure that he’s not swanning around without earning his keep. Worse, she might see through his plan and nip it in the bud.

He thanks the stars when he gets to the private chambers without incident. Padding silently along the hardwood floor, he passes rooms thick with the sounds of pleasure, the soft strains of music, the murmured tones of clandestine conversations.

The Sylleblossom is almost full to capacity this week; only two rooms are empty, and he suspects he’d be occupying one of them if he hadn’t been in such a foul mood these past few days.

The viscount’s room is in the corner — the one with the largest window, and the view of the city and its many beautiful waterways.Through the thick paper of the screen, he can see the warm amber glow of lamps and candles.

At the door, he takes a moment to compose himself. Then, balancing the tray on one hand, he moves the other to the groove on the door and slides it open, making scarcely a sound as he goes.

The chambers are warm — almost impossibly so. The air is full of the heady scent of exotic oils, and Prompto can’t help but think that it’s a good thing that it masks the smell of sex from the surrounding rooms.

There’s a heavy wooden partition splitting the room in two; through the latticework, Prompto can see the outline of the viscount where he lies prone on the ground, nestled in silk. Prompto adjusts his hold on the tray and moves around the partition on careful tiptoe.

The viscount has shed down to little more than his undergarments. Where he lies, his arms folded under his head, Prompto can see strong shoulders, the flickering of the candlelight setting his muscles in relief. As he nears, he can see a scattering of beauty spots across the man’s skin; follows a trail of them downward along the curve of his spine where it vanishes beneath the cotton of his undergarments.

His legs, too, are surprisingly toned; Prompto imagines he must be strong and fast with a physique such as his. It strikes him as odd, really, that a viscount should be anything but the ruddy mass of flesh he’s come to expect from the gentry in their complacency.

The floor creaks just slightly beneath Prompto’s foot and the viscount stirs, but doesn’t open his eyes. There’s a smile on his lips; they’re tinted red from the kisses he must have shared with Cindy.

‘I was wondering what took you so long,’ he says. ‘I was starting to think you’d forgotten about me.’

Deftly, Prompto lowers himself at the viscount’s side, where his face is turned away. Prompto sets the tray down and warms his hands first before pouring a generous helping of oil into his palm, smoothing it together between his fingertips.

There’s a soft sigh from the viscount as Prompto’s hands meet his skin. It’s such a sensuous, wanton sound that Prompto feels a tug of longing in his chest.

_ It’s not for you, _ he tells himself.  _ He thinks you’re Cindy. _

He makes his way slowly over the planes of the viscount’s back, and he’s been doing this long enough that it doesn’t take much to find the problem areas where tension lies. As he works his fingertips into them, the viscount gives a groan that’s almost obscene.

Upward Prompto moves, from the base of the viscount’s spine up to his shoulder blades, and to the shoulders themselves. It’s here that he sees the glint of a chain around the man’s neck, and that in itself wouldn’t be cause for curiosity if not for the relatively heavy gauge of the chain, wrought not in silver, but what appears to be steel. Whatever it is, it doesn’t appear to be for cosmetic use — and the viscount likely would have removed it from himself while undressing had that been the case.

Prompto realises, with a little shiver of excitement, that this must be the item Noct tasked him with retrieving.

It’s difficult not to get ahead of himself as he edges his fingers closer to the chain. He knows that he can’t just slip it from the viscount’s neck and hope to make a mad dash with it; he’ll need to come up with some sort of plan. In all likelihood, at least, whatever it is it must be small.

He lets his finger brush experimentally over the metal of the chain. It’s warm to the touch, and the clasp is sturdy — sturdy enough that it probably would only break with a great deal of force.

‘I wouldn’t, if I were you.’

Prompto freezes guiltily. He could play it off as something other than precisely what it was, but his brain seems to have come to a standstill. Has it been so long since he was a cutpurse that he’s forgotten how to do it right?

‘I wouldn’t want you to get hurt on my account,’ the viscount says gently. He doesn’t  _ sound _ like he’s scolding, at least. ‘Not when you’ve been so—’

The viscount turns his head; stops abruptly when he looks up and sees not Cindy beside him, but Prompto.

Alarm registers in his green eyes but then — amusement?

He rolls himself onto his side, exposing his chest to Prompto. More dark freckles here, and just the faintest thatch of hair dwindling down into his undergarments. 

‘Well then,’ the viscount says. ‘Isn’t this interesting?’

**Author's Note:**

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